


Pastels and Poetry

by the_painless_moustache



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Artist Stiles, M/M, Model Derek, Poet Derek, Pretty much just an excuse for me to have Stiles draw Derek over and over, Yes I wrote poems for this thing I'm so far gone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_painless_moustache/pseuds/the_painless_moustache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s modeling career started as favor to Laura. He’d kept it up after she’d finished the class because it was only six hours a week and it paid him really good money.<br/>All in all, it was a sweet deal, and he’d never regretted it when looking back on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pastels and Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> Yo hey how's it going? You guys good? Good. Okay, so this fic is my self-indulgent "I want Stiles to draw Derek in pastels." And, fair warning, I AM NOT AN ARTIST. I've used pastels maybe twice in my life (and admittedly loved them) so if you're an artist who frequents pastels, I am so so sorry for the inaccuracies there undoubtedly are.

 Derek’s modeling career started as favor to Laura. He’d kept it up after she’d finished the class because it was only six hours a week and it paid him _really_ good money. His friends had all jokingly suggested he do porn, but the idea of showing off for another person like that made him sick and shaky. This, though…this was pretty natural. Just sitting, holding a position with a pair of boxers and a strategically wrapped sheet.

 Sometimes he got to read, when the teacher wanted the pose for it. Sometimes he got to see the students work at the end of the year, but mostly it was just a lot of sitting around, three hours at a time, twice a week with a hefty paycheck of nearly two thousand dollars at the end of the semester.

 All in all, it was a sweet deal, and he’d never regretted it when looking back on it..

 He walks in to the class early, seeing only a few students milling about. A new semester, a new set of faces, and a new round of suggestive mentions of her grandson from the professor.

 “Derek!” she coos, throwing her arms around him. Derek’s nearly two feet taller than her, so he has to bend in half for her to make the reach. “I’m so happy you made it, I know that Laura said you were in California for awhile.”

 “Ah, yeah. Saw my parents.” he says, extraditing  himself from her arms. “How are you, Patty?”

 She makes a noncommittal humming noises, waving her hands around. Then she claps. “I’m so excited for you to meet this class, Derek! My grandson’s finally joining us!” She winks.

 “You’re not old enough to have a grandson.” Derek says, grinning back at her. She swats him away and flies off to go greet her new students. Derek shrugs off his jacket and drops it by her desk, on the designated couch. He takes up a spot on it, watching different students pile in. Some see him and blush, diving into spaces and spreading out their supplies. Some send him suggestive grins and winks.

 He’s in the middle of considering a dark-haired girl with wide eyes and full lips when there’s a ruckus by the door and Derek turns to see Patty clucking her tongue at a pair of students. One is a red-head, laughing hysterically at the boy sprawled out on the floor next to her. The boy raises his head, glasses skewed across his nose, making one eye several sizes larger than the other. Derek snorts before he can stop himself, but it’s covered by the cackles of the rest of the class.

 The guy lowers his head back to the floor, but it let’s Derek admire the long, lanky limbs and the very pull-able hair. He brings up his head again and gives Patty a sheepish smile. Derek likes the way the pink bleeds across his cheeks, wants to see if it dips under his collar, too.

 “Squeaky!” Patty sighs, crossing her arms, knocking Derek out of his daydream of pressing the boy further into the floor.

 He scrambles up, wiping his long fingers across tight, faded jeans. “It’s—I’m fine! Sorry.”

 “Squeaky.” the girl coos, leaning over and nuzzling him. He shoves her away, the blush flooding his entire face in a glorious shade of pink.

 “Shut up, Lydia.” he hisses, flopping down onto the stool farthest to the right of Derek, not five feet from him. Not that any of the other students are much farther away. He spreads supplies across the table and opens a sketchbook on the easel, blocking most of Derek’s few of anything but his eyes.

 He catches Derek staring once he straightens his glasses, glancing up and going red all the way to his hairline. Derek grins, nodding. The boy ducks completely behind his easel.

 “Okay, class! We’re going to go around and introduce each other to make us and our model more comfortable. I’m Patty Stilinski, I’m the professor of Life Drawing 250, so if this is not your class...” she gestures kindly to the door. “My preferred medium is water color, but every kind of drawing medium is encouraged in this class.” Then she looks at Derek.

 “Derek. I’m going to be your model for the next few months. Uh, no preferred medium.” he grins.

 The girl with the fuller lips introduces herself as Braeden, tells everyone her medium is graphite with a shrug and sends a smile to Derek when she says she’s a junior. The others go around the room, introducing their mediums—mostly graphite with a dash of charcoal and some painters—when they come to the red head.

 “Lydia Martin, sophomore, I prefer watercolor or charcoal.” she looks to her left, everyone’s eyes following.

 The boy—Squeaky, Patty had called him?—already as a smear of color across his cheek. A bright flash of bubblegum pink. His hair is a mess as well, and he’s entirely focused on the paper in front of him and not the rest of the students. Lydia kicks his chair and Patty gives a disappointed sigh. He looks up wildly, swinging his gaze around. “Uh, Stiles. Stilinski. Sophomore, pastels.”

 Derek blinks, looks at Patty. _Stilinski?_ As in…Patty’s grandson?

 “You may have noticed the similarity in our names.” Patty sighs. “This is my grandson, which will _not_ be a problem, I assure you.”

 “Thanks, Gran.” Stiles snorts, rubbing his hand across the paper smoothly.

 “Alright. Derek, go ahead and take up a pose for us and we’ll get started.”

 Derek nods, takes a seat in the stool in the front and hiking one leg on the bar at the base. He casts a glance to Stiles, who is frowning at him curiously. The sound of paper shuffling fills the room and then there’s scratching noises and pencils or charcoal or chalk and Derek relaxes into it.

 He hears tiny noises from his right, though, little hums and snuffles that can only be Stiles. Derek doesn’t know him well but it seems pretty obvious he can’t be still and quiet for longer than a minute.

 And then Stiles gets up and sits in front of him.

 The class pauses—except for Lydia, who’s brush is steady on the paper. Derek stares at him, mouth falling open a little before he catches himself. Stiles catches it, though, eyes on it and mimicking it until he bends over his pad and swipes a green pastel over the page. Derek watches his face come to life, the simple lines of his cheeks and jaw, a jagged scratch for the line of his hair and then another for his noise. Stiles turns his hand to the side and with a knowing few swipes spreads the green into shadows, detailing the planes of his face with easy, quick drags.

 It’s halfway through the class when Patty tells them to stop. Stiles blinks up, turning to Derek and catching his stare before turning to Patty. “We’ll give Derek a break, if that’s okay? And us, as well, I think.”

 Stiles bends over his paper right away and carves out Derek’s eyes carefully, in thin, detailed lines. before dipping down and fleshing out the lines of his mouth, smooth and slightly parted. Derek doesn’t even notice he hasn’t moved until Patty touches his shoulder. “Derek, sweetheart? Do you need to stretch?”

 “I—no. No, I’m okay. I know it messes them up when I move.”

 Patty gives him a kind yet slightly knowing smile and moves away. Derek looks back just in time to catch Stiles’ small smile. “So, um…how’d you…get into art?”

 “Grandma.” Stiles answers succinctly, smile spreading as he wipes his jeans and smears the green from his fingers on it. He reaches up to push up his glasses and a small line of green appears on the bridge of his nose, too. “What about you? How’d you get into modeling for her class?”

 “My sister.”

 “Sweet.” Stiles grabs a different color and starts streaking it across the page, defining different shadows with a sky blue. It’s stark against the green, but blends well, too.

 Derek sits and watches him until he finishes, doesn’t even notice the other student clambering back in. He’s seen Laura work before, had been just as mesmerized by the way the lines turned into something beautiful. Watching Stiles is the same, but…not, because there’s something so graceful in the way he places his lines, so sure and confident.

 Patty calls the class to a close, but Derek moves slow to catch the rims of red Stiles draws out for his irises. When he’s done, he stands, grins blindingly at Derek, and jogs over to Lydia to show her.

 Lydia grins widely, and they start in on a conversation about Lydia’s own piece. Derek glances over to Patty who’s grinning at him stupidly. He’s not ashamed to admit he bails.

***

 It becomes a thing, after that. Watching Stiles work. The first few weeks are always the easiest on him; just some opening poses to get the artists comfortable drawing him. Stiles, though, seems more than comfortable. He spends more than half his time sitting on the floor somewhere around Derek, sketching close up bits of him instead of his whole pose. Derek’s endlessly fascinated with the colors he uses and the easy way he drags out the lines to show _movement_ in the pictures, despite Derek’s utterly still form.

 It gets to a point where Stiles will converse with him after class—Patty stops giving the class breaks the week after they start—about whatever Derek asks him. Derek only has to prompt him with one question and he shoots off like a bottle rocket, talking about colors and lines, using his stained hands to gesture as if he’s painting the air between them.

 A few weeks in, Derek gets an e-mail from Patty asking him if he’ll do the next session shirtless. Derek agrees easily enough—it’s not like he hasn’t done it before—but the night leading up to it he can’t sleep. He feels _nervous_ , as if this is his first time all over again. As if he’s not used to being judged by it. He calls Laura in a blind fit of panic over his _chest hair_.

 “Jesus, Derek, it’s almost one in the morning.” she sighs, but there’s no sleep in her voice.

 “Like you weren’t awake anyway.” he snaps. “Just—should I shave it?”

 “What did you do for the last class?”

 “I—I don’t remember. I think I might’ve left it? Or it could’ve been shaved, because I did that weekend with Julie. I mean, from an artist’s stand point, though, like…wh-what’s more interesting to draw?”

 “It’s more of a challenge to draw the hair.” Laura says carefully. “And it’s not like they can’t just ignore it if they don’t want it in the piece.”

 “Okay. So…I’ll leave it.”

 “Oh my god, you’re banging someone in the class.”

 Derek goes red in the mirror. “No, I’m not!”

 “You totally are. You don’t care about whether or not your fucking chest hair is _artistic_ , Derek. And you sure as hell wouldn’t be calling me about it at one in the morning the day before you have to be there.”

 “Laura, I’m _not_.” he insists. “I’m not sleeping with _anyone_.”

 Laura lets the pause linger between them.“But you want to.”

 “It’s not important, is it?” Derek grumbles.

 “It’s not like you haven’t banged anyone in the class before, Derek.” Laura sighs impatiently. “What’s the deal?”

 Derek reaches up and scratches absently at his collar bone, at the faint pin-sized chicken pock scar there. “He’s…sort of Patty’s grandson.”

 Laura doesn’t even wait to laugh. She bursts out with the most obnoxious sounding snort he’s ever heard her release, and it only serves to make him frown more. “The one she’s been _insisting_ you hook up with forever?”

 “Yeah, that one.”

 “God, you’re a mess.” Laura cackles. “Keep the chest hair, but trim it. And your beard. And your _eyebrows_ , Jesus—”

 “Fuck you.” Derek snaps, hanging up on her. He still does an inordinate amount of personal grooming, though.

 He finally gets to sleep by four, which of course means he wakes up an hour later than he’d like and ends up throwing on jeans and a t-shirt he’s not a hundred percent sure are clean before rushing out of the house. The city is _freezing_ , but he doesn’t have time to grab a coat, so instead of taking the Subway he hails a cab and tells them to book it to the class.

 He stumbles in last, earning a few eyebrow raises, most notably the identical ones from Patty and Stiles. He mutters a halfhearted apology and trudges to the middle of the room, flopping down on the stool. Patty waves her hand as a go-ahead, so he sheds his shirt and tries to slow his breath.

 He catches Braeden making eyes at him, feels himself heat up a little under her gaze but doesn’t feel the smug pull of attraction he normally would. She’s beautiful, and smart from the few conversations they’ve had, and really he would be beyond interested in her if it weren’t…

 If it weren’t for Stiles.

 As if summoned by the thought of him, Stiles is the first to jump up. In the past few weeks, some of the other students have dared to move to find an angle they want, but none of them seem to need to get as close as Stiles does. And for all of Derek’s worrying, Stiles doesn’t even sit in his line of sight.

 He sits directly behind him.

 Derek tries his hardest not to fidget. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s had problems with it, but he can feel Stiles mapping the lines of his back with his eyes, hears the soft brush of pastel and fingers over paper, knows that Stiles is probably more than vastly interested in the swirls tattooed on his back. Stiles himself as several tattoos, Derek knows. When he shrugs off his flannel, it reveals a swirl of them on both arms, spread out enough not to be full sleeves by clearly taking up the spaces from his wrist to his shoulder. Derek’s never asked, though, if he has others or what they mean. And Stiles hasn’t either.

 In a surprising turn of events Lydia comes up to him just to study. Paints aren’t really conducive to being moved, since she’d need to bring the whole set up with her, but she’s never come closer to him, seemingly happy enough to look from afar. Now, though, she circles him, eyes him up and down like some sort of display at a museum.

 And unlike Stiles, or the other students, she speaks.

 “Interesting tattoo.”

 Derek blinks, glances towards her but can’t quite catch her gaze.

 “I’m assuming you know what it is and didn’t just pick it out from a book.” she adds, coming around to raise an eyebrow at him.

 He smirks. “Yeah, I know what it is.”

 “Why the triskele?”

 “Family thing.” Derek says shortly, glancing to make sure none of the other students are glaring at him for talking. None of them really seem to care, though. “My siblings and I all have one.”

 She seems to consider this, nodding. “Stiles sort of has one like that.”

 Stiles makes a noise from behind him, something akin to acknowledgement that someone’s said his name.

 “Right, Stiles?” Lydia prompts, looking around Derek at her friend.

 “Right.” Stiles mutters.

 Lydia rolls her eyes and focuses back on Derek. “It’s a raven. All across his shoulders and the back of his arms. Took him nearly a year to finish it.”

 Derek tries not to imagine it too vividly, not while he’s sitting here talking to who Derek thinks it probably either Stiles girlfriend or at least best friend. “Sounds awesome.” he manages.

 “It is.” Lydia agrees with a shrug. “I’ve only got one. I’m not much of a fan of needles, but Stiles insisted it was something I should do.” She turns and lifts her shirt to flash her side. There’s a woman stretching up to her bra strap, willowy and with red hair, who looks a lot like Lydia herself, but she has her mouth open in a terrible scream, tears streaming from her face.

 “It’s a banshee.” she explains. “Six months to finish, hurt like a bitch.”

 “She’s watercolored.” Derek notes, impressed. “Those are difficult to do.”

 “I designed her myself.” Lydia tells him proudly, dropping her shirt again. “We have a friend that does tattoos. She’s the best. So, if you ever want another one…”

 “Yeah, I’ll ask. Thanks.”

 Lydia seems satisfied enough by the conversation, returning to her seat and picking up her brush. Derek watches her focus return to the painting, zeroing in on whatever spot she left off at and applying her brush as needed.

 By the end of class, Derek is a little stiff. He stands and stretches the moment Patty tells them to stop, tendons in his back popping in relief. He hears something clatter behind him and turns. Stiles is bent over a new page and snaps his neck up to glare at him. “Turn around!” he barks.

 Derek’s startled enough to listen.

 “Arms, up.”

 He blinks and frowns but stretches his arms up. Stiles works quickly, but even Patty’s leaves them, yelling at Stiles to lock up and buy Derek lunch for helping him out before she goes. When Derek hears the soft sigh Stiles gives when he’s done, he turns and looks down at it. It’s flesh toned, this time, unbelievably life-like in the curve of muscles and shadows playing across Derek’s back. Even the tattoo looks natural, bending with the way Derek does. “That’s amazing.” Derek blurts honestly.

 Stiles beams, but he’s still studying the picture. “Thanks.” He glances up. “You’re a good subject.”

 Derek grabs his shirt and pulls it back on when Stiles starts to pack up, but before he tucks the sketchbook away he stops him. “Can I, uh…can I see some of the other stuff?”

 Stiles looks startled, but he nods. Derek sits on the floor next to him carefully and Stiles hands it over, letting Derek flip as he will.

 Going backwards, Derek sees his own back and tattoo in shades of purple, and then his neck and shoulder and the bottom line of his jaw in mostly pinks. He can’t find a single picture of him he doesn’t like. Most of the stuff he sees from the students are studies, practice of human anatomy, but this is _art_. Stiles isn’t drawing him for practice, he’s drawing him like he wants to present him as something beautiful.

 About halfway through he comes across something he knows he shouldn’t be seeing. It’s Stiles, it has to be, sitting hunched over his sketchbook. The entire piece is one shade of blue, mostly just lines, and it has Stiles with his head in his hands and the soft shape of someone hugging him. Someone who isn’t entirely there.

 Stiles tenses a little, clears his throat. “That was, um…sorry, just…” He reaches across and flips the sketchbook shut, taking it from Derek slowly, like Derek might try to stop him.

 “Sorry,” Derek mumbles quietly, looking at him with all the softness he can muster. “I shouldn’t have looked through all of them, I just assumed it was a class book.”

 “It is. Sort of. Um…sometimes, when I can’t…sleep…” Stiles stands, walking to his station and struggling with his words. It’s the first time he’s ever done that with Derek. “I’ll draw, when I can’t sleep. It was the one on top of the pile. Most of my books look the same, so…”

 Derek stands, nodding like he understands. In a way, he sort of does. “I write. When I can’t sleep.”

 Stiles looks up at that. “Write?”

 “Yeah. Mostly poetry.”

 Stiles grin isn’t hesitant, but he tries to hide it. “You write poetry when you can’t sleep. That’s adorable.”

 “You draw when you can’t sleep.” Derek reminds him, shoving his hands in his pockets.

 Stiles shrugs, accepting the defense for what it is.

 Derek shuffles a little, clears his throat. “So, Lydia told me you have a tattoo?”

 Stiles laughs. “I have a few. Is that what she was talking about when she came over?”

 “Yeah. Mostly.”

 “Which one did she mention?”

 “The raven.”

 Stiles pauses for a moment, then hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah? How’d that come up?”

 “She asked about mine. I told her it was a family thing, and she said yours was kind of like that. Told me it went all across your shoulders and arms.”

 Stiles nods, turning and dragging up the sleeve of his t-shirt. Derek immediately sees the tip of a wing, lined in black and purple and blue. Stiles drops his sleeve and turns.

 Derek gestures to his back, then shrugs. “My sisters and I all got one on our eighteenth birthdays. My uncle Peter bought Laura’s, Laura bought mine, and I bought my little sister Cora’s.”

 Stiles grins. “That’s really cool. Like being accepted into your pack of adultness.”

 “I guess. Laura’s is over her heart.” Derek places his palm on the spot, then moves it to his side. “Cora got hers on her hips.”

 “And you made your big sister doll out a fortune for you to get one on your back.”

 Derek smirks. “Yep.”

 Stiles’ grin turns into a laugh and then a considering look. “So, lunch for helping me out?”

 “I could eat.”

 “Good, because Gran would kick my ass if she found out I didn’t feed you. Mind if we eat in, though? I’m an art student, so my food habits mostly consist of stealing things from others.”

 “You want me to make you lunch?” Derek asks, not opposed to the idea but wanting to tease all the same.

 Stiles grabs Patty’s keys from the desk, looking offended. “Dude, no. Of course not. But…” his face turns a little mischievous. “If you supply the kitchen and the food, I can whip up something.”

 Derek is in no spot to say no.

***

 Lunch with Stiles becomes a regular thing. Stiles doesn’t go on any impromptu drawing sprees in class again, but Derek sees he can’t go more than an hour without drawing something. Sometimes it’ll be doodles on napkins, or on receipts, or sometimes on himself or Derek. The first time Stiles whips out a sharpie and demands Derek’s arm, he doesn’t wash the thing off until he has the next class. And even then, he only does it because it would be far too embarrassing for Stiles to see how he’d preserved it.

 He learns a lot about more Stiles, too. Learns that he’s always in motion, waving his hands when he talks and bouncing his foot up and down when his hands are too busy for it. Learns that he picked up drawing because of his grandma and his mom and his ADHD, that it kept him out of trouble in school until he started vandalizing desks and walls. Learns that his favorite food is shrimp alfredo and that he hates  audio books and his favorite holiday is Cinco de Mayo because of the culture and colors.

 Derek falls more and more in love by the second.

 It’s weeks later and he’s watching Stiles work in his kitchen like he lives there, like he _belongs_ in Derek’s space. He’s tossed his sweatshirt somewhere and Derek’s studying the movement of the flower curved around his elbow when someone bangs on his door. Stiles stutters to a stop in his monologue, oblivious that Derek was only half listening, and turns towards the door. Derek stares hard at it and hopes it’ll go away.

 “Are you going to get that?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow at him teasingly.

 “I have a feeling who it is, and I’m not sure I want to.” Derek answers honestly. He’s suspicions are confirmed when the knock repeats itself, followed by Laura singing “I’m not afraid to climb the fire escape, Derbear!”

 Stiles looks at him with something between fascination and second-hand embarrassment. “Derbear?”

 Derek sighs and stands, tugging his door open but blocking the entrance. Laura pouts. “What do you want, Laura?”

 She opens her mouth to respond when she catches a whiff of the stir fry and immediately pokes Derek’s ribs to get him to flinch away from the door so she can slide in. “God, that smells amazing! I don’t even care if it tastes like shit at this point, I’m so—oh, hello.”

 “It doesn’t taste like shit.” Stiles offers, waving the spoon at her with a winning smile. “Hi, I’m Stiles.”

 Laura lights up and spins on Derek. “ _Stiles_.” she repeats, grinning almost manically.

 Stiles frowns at Derek over Laura’s shoulder. Derek just shakes his head, accepting his loss for what it is. “Stiles, this is my sister, Laura.”

 “Oh!” Stiles lights up again. Laura manages to look not-psychotic when she turns around, which Derek thinks is probably the best he’ll get. “Hi! Derek’s told me a lot about you.”

 “All good things, I’m sure.” Laura says confidently.

 “If what I’ve heard is the good things, I’m not sure I want to hear the bad things.” Stiles says, smirking as he turns back to the pan. “Sorry, if I’d known you were coming I would’ve made more. You can stay, though. It’ll just be smaller portion sizes.”

 “Don’t worry about it, I won’t be long. I just came to check up on Derbear.” she flops onto Derek’s previous stool and cups her chin in her hands. “So, Stiles. You’re taking Life Drawing, huh?”

 “Yep. My grandma teaches the class, so I think she’d be pretty offended if I didn’t.” Stiles gestures vaguely over his shoulder. “Plus I get to look at a hot model for three hours, so, you know, bonus.”

 “Derek, you didn’t tell me you quit modeling.” Laura teases, and Derek sneers at her as he takes the stool next to her. Stiles laughs, though, switching off the heat and digging up plates for everyone. Laura sends Derek a smug look. “So are you majoring in art, then?”

 “Actually, no, but I’ve always loved it.”

 Derek starts a little at that. He’s never considered Stiles major, just thought that it has something to do with art. “I didn’t know you weren’t an art major.”

 Stiles slides a plate over to him with a raised eyebrow. “You never asked.”

 “So what is your major?” he wonders.

 “Computer programming. I want to go into video game design.” Stiles stabs a vegetable on his plate and pops it in his mouth, something Derek can only label as _mirth_ behind his eyes.

 “Well, that can be artsy!” Laura says, flapping a hand and poking around her vegetables for the chicken. “I mean, don’t they use art people to make the characters?”

 “Yeah, but I’m on the digital end of the spectrum. There’s storyboard artists and background artists and character designers, but I’m really interested in putting it all together and making it work. I mean, the art thing is cool, don’t get me wrong, but it isn’t my style.” Stiles shrugs and takes another bite, pointing his fork at Laura. “You?”

 “I’m graduated now, but I majored in Theater Tech. Which my uncle was _oh_ so excited about, but it’s worked out well. I do a lot of off-Broadway stuff right now, but I’ve got some contacts with my number if they’re ever looking for fresh meat.”

 “Oh, sweet! So do you do set design or makeup?”

 “Mostly set design.” Laura says, beaming that someone knows something. “Some light work, when it’s needed. They don’t really trust me with a makeup brush, though.”

 Stiles shrugs in a very understanding way, then looks at Derek. “And what about you? You’ve never said what you do in your non-modeling time.”

 “I read.” Derek says flatly. Stiles flicks a piece of pepper at him, which earns him a smirk.

 “He’s not lying.” Laura agrees. “He does read. He reads a lot. And writes, and speaks. And he does it in about—how many languages is it now, Derek? Four? Five?”

 “Eight.” Derek sighs, knowing full well Laura knows how many he speaks.

 Stiles chokes on his food, fork clattering onto his plate. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and shrill. “ _You speak eight languages?_ ”

 “Fluently.” Laura adds innocently. Derek glares at her.

 “Wha— _how do you speak eight languages?_ ”

 “It’s my job.” Derek mutters, shrugging. “I do translation services for businesses.”

 “But _eight?_ ”

 Derek throws a pea at Stiles open mouth, grinning when Stiles sputters at him.

 “He’s always been really good with his tongue.” Laura offers. Derek winces, and Stiles makes another choking noise. “You know, picking up languages easily and all.”

 “Right.” Stiles agrees quickly, but Derek doesn’t miss the quick dart of his eyes to his mouth.

 “By the time I graduated high school, the twerp was fluent in Spanish and French.”

 “They’re practically the same language, it doesn’t count.” Derek insists. It’s an old argument.

 “Those are his two best ones.” Laura continues. “But now he speaks Mandarin, Greek, Russian, German, Italian, and Japanese, too.”

 “It’s—Italian is Latin-rooted, too.” Derek says, feeling exposed.

 Laura sends him a tired glare.

 “Well,” Stiles says slowly, studying his plate. “I’m impressed.”

 “It’s not more impressive than your art.” Derek insists. “It’s—it’s just _talking_ , you know?”

 Stiles snorts. “Don’t pretend it’s not hard work to speak eight languages.”

 “Don’t pretend it’s not hard work to draw.” Derek snaps back.

 The apartment falls into an uneasy silence, and Laura stands with a low whistle. “And that’s my cue. Thanks for lunch, Stiles. It was good to meet you.”

 “Yeah, you too.” Stiles says, blinking out of a stare down with Derek. Derek sighs, rubbing his forehead and doesn’t open his eyes until he hears the door click shut. Stiles is studying his plate, and Derek studies him right back. There’s something confused in the way he looks, like the entire interaction has thrown him off balance. Then he brightens and looks up at Derek. “So, can you teach me to swear in all those languages?”

***

 It’s only the last couple weeks of class that Patty asks him to model mostly nude. Like with the shirtless thing, he gets nervous, but only slightly. He walks into class and strips as Patty talks, leaving him in boxer briefs. He drapes himself in the sheet at first, but then he doesn’t bother. He tells himself it’s not because of Stiles.

 It totally is.

 Because the moment Derek had shirked his pants, Stiles hadn’t moved an inch from his spot. Oh, he drew, but Derek couldn’t even catch him _looking_ at him. Not only that, but Stiles takes off directly after class and despite their weeks of lunches, Derek’s _never_ gotten his number.

 So it leaves him open for Braeden, who saunters over and shows him her piece. It’s amazing, of course it is, but it’s devoid of color. It’s him, bent and vulnerable looking and Derek likes it well enough but there’s no sense of anything in it. No movement. Just a study.

 He looks at some of her other work, to be polite, but it’s all very similar. Him, full body, in his poses. All of his muscles are exact, the lines of his hair delicately scratched into the paper. But there all clinical. If Braeden notices his guilt over not loving her work, she doesn’t notice. Instead, she leans over his shoulder and puts her lips right against his ear “If you’d be willing, I’d love to get a private session.”

 And before this semester, Derek would’ve agreed no matter what he thought of her art. He’d have grinned at her knowingly and told her he’d come now if she wanted, and then follow her back to her dorm or apartment or wherever, where they wouldn’t even pretend to be interested in Derek modeling.

 But now, all he sees is the empty easel across the room, the one Stiles sits in. All he feels is a pang of want to be with him and not here. He offers Braeden back her sketchbook and politely declines, even managing a rueful smile as he walks out.

 And runs straight into Stiles.

 Stiles yelps, dropping his pastels on the ground. They burst open without preamble and scatter across the floor, smearing color on the tiles. Derek automatically drops to his knees to help. “Sorry,” Stiles mutters. “I forgot, I was supposed to get this thing from Gran and I—sorry.”

 “It’s okay,” Derek says, placing the pastels back in their box. “It’s not like you meant to do it.”

 “Yeah.” Stiles agrees, placing his collected pieces into the box and then deftly rearranging them into their proper order. Derek tries to catch his eyes, but Stiles is hunched in on himself, quiet and not at all the Stiles Derek is used to.

 “Are you okay?” Derek wonders quietly. “I…I haven’t seen you in a long time. You don’t come over any more.”

 “I got busy.” Stiles says flatly, shutting the box and standing. Derek follows suit, but he keeps himself stationed in front of the door. Stiles doesn’t look at him at first, but then he does. Derek sees the flush in his cheeks, the hurt in his eyes, and it knocks him off balance.

 “Stiles, what…did I do something?”

 “No.” Stiles says quickly. “And you won’t.”

 “What are you talking about?”

 “Why didn’t you take Braeden home?”

 Derek blinks at him, mouth agape. “How…”

 “She wants to sleep with you. You could have. Easily.”

 “Stiles, what are you talking about?”

 “Why did it have to be me?” Stiles snaps. “She wanted you, not me.”

 That stings more than it should. Derek’s shoulders drop along with his jaw, his heart beating hard behind his ribs and his stomach churning. “I’m…sorry.”

 Stiles looks away. “You know, she…she wanted you, wanted to take you home and wanted to get a good fuck out of you, and I—I didn’t, you know? I just wanted to draw, and—”

 “I get it, Stiles. You don’t have to keep—”

 “And then you _ignored_ her for me, and I knew, I _knew_ that you fucking—that’s what you _do_ , you know, and I _knew_ that, but I just…you were so fucking _nice_ and interesting and you pretended to like my art and it—it’s not _fair_.”

 And suddenly Derek’s lost again. “Stiles, I don’t understand. I don’t know what’s happening.”

 “I’m calling you out on your bullshit!” Stiles finally yells, shoving the box of pastels into his chest to knock him back a step. “I got tired of you fucking pretending to like me, okay? That’s what’s happening.”

 “Who told you I was pretending?” Derek demands, bewildered.

 Stiles just looks offended. “No one had to fucking _tell me_ , Derek. You do this all the time. You think everyone doesn’t _know?_ ”

 “Do—do _what?_ ”

 “Pick up the artists from this class.” Stiles gestures angrily behind to the room.

 Derek blinks dumbly. “You thought…you thought I was just trying to _sleep with you?_ ”

 Stiles at least looks a little taken back, though still hurt. “Yeah, I—”

 Derek doesn’t let him finish. He just snags his arm and drags him back into the room. Braeden looks up and sees them and makes a beeline for the door. Derek slams the door behind her and points to his seat in the center of the room. “Sit.”

 “Fuck you, I don’t—”

 “ _Sit the fuck down_.”

 Stiles mouth hangs open, but he falls silent and stumbles his way to the stool. Derek nods, pressing his fingers through his hair as he studies the kid in front of him. Then he curses under his breath and squeezes his eyes shut.

 “ _Every line you draw,_

_a weak comparison_

_to the lines I trace,_

_to the sunshine painted,_

_to every golden kiss_

_I want to place across_

_the soft curve of your smile_

_and the peak of your laugh._ ”

 When Derek opens his eyes, Stiles is staring long and hard at him while the silence stretches through the room. He shifts uncomfortably on the stool, looking at his feet. “What was that?” he mutters, but Derek can see he already knows.

 “It’s one of the poems I wrote about you. _For_ you.”

 Stiles’ cheeks go red. He shoves his glasses up his nose, then drags them through his hair. “Um…”

 “ _One_ of them.” Derek repeats. “If you need me to recite more of them, I will. If you need me to _write_ more, I will.”

 “You—why are you telling me this?”

 “Because you seem to think that I just want to fuck you.”

 Stiles flinches and has the decency to look sheepish. “I thought you did.”

 “Yeah, I know.” Derek snaps, crossing his arms defensively in front of him and turning away from Stiles to study the rest of the room.

 “I just—we never talked about us. Ever. We never talked about our lives, and I didn’t mind. I _didn’t_ , it was just sort of weird, but it was whatever, and then—and then I met Laura, I thought ‘ _okay_ , finally, we’re getting somewhere.’ And then…” Stiles trails off, shifting uncomfortable. “And then I realized that this is _normal_ for you. That you do this, you come to the class and you pick a student and you sleep with them for the semester and that’s _it_. And I couldn’t do it, Derek. I couldn’t be a semester fling for you.”

 “God, Stiles.” Derek rushes forward and cups his jaw with both hands, turning his gaze upwards. “You’re not just anyone to me. You’re not just someone to sleep with. If you never want to get into bed with me, _I don’t care_. I just want to be with you. I want to see you and spend time with you and just _have you_.”

 “Well, I know that _now_.” Stiles sighs, pressing his forehead forward to touch Derek’s. He swallows thickly. “Will you still write me cheesy poems?” Stiles puts in quietly.

 “The cheesiest poems.” Derek agrees.

 Stiles reaches up to grab his wrists, pulling him just a fraction closer. “You better not be messing with me, Derek, I swear to god.” he whispers, voice wavering.

 Derek shakes his head. “I’ll do anything to show you how serious I am, Stiles.”

 “Anything’s a really dangerous word.”

 “I know.”

 Stiles blinks up at him. “You could tell me your last name.”

 Derek laughs, more out of hysteria than amusement. “It’s Hale.”

 “Hi, Derek Hale.”

 “Hi.”

 “Do you really speak eight languages?”

 Derek shakes his head. “It’s actually ten. I didn’t tell Laura because she’s so fucking annoying about it.”

 This draws a small laugh out of Stiles, which pushes them closer together so their foreheads and noses touch. “What’re the other two?”

 “Portuguese and Hindi.”

 “Fucking showoff.” he breathes, lips just brushing against Derek’s. Derek nods just the tiniest bit, and that triggers Stiles to press forward and kiss him. Derek sighs, eyebrows coming together and fingers tightening just slightly on Stiles’ jaw. Stiles draws back but Derek overtakes the space, not nearly done with his mouth.

 “You’ve got…a really…nice…mouth.” Stiles breathes between kisses.

 “You, too.” Derek agrees.

 “Kind of…want…to just…keep kissing you.”

 Derek laughs, turning to press his mouth to the mole on the corner of Stiles’ mouth. “God, Stiles.”

 “I’m an idiot.” Stiles whimpers into his ear, kissing a spot just underneath it.

 “You can make it up to me by coming to my place and making me lunch.”

 “You just want me for my pizza dough.”

 Derek turns and kisses him again.

***

 Derek wakes up to someone banging on his door. He mutters a curse and stumbles out of his bed, down the stairs, and drags his door open, expecting Laura or maybe Cora. Instead, he gets Stiles. It’s been a few days since they’d seen each other, but they talked regularly. After the class had ended, Stiles had tucked his number into the waistband of Derek’s jeans and flirtingly said to call him. Derek had snagged his wrist and kissed the laughter right out of his mouth.

 So he’d talked to Stiles—had fallen asleep talking to Stiles, actually—and when he had he’d been fine. Now, though, there’s a shadow over Stiles’ face. Derek drags him in automatically, squeezing the back of his neck. Stiles leans into him like a second nature, their bodies only blocked by the sketchbook and messenger’s bag between them.

 “Hey.” Derek says softly. “Stiles, what’s going on?”

 “I can’t sleep.” Stiles mumbles into his neck. “I just wanted to see you.”

 “Okay.” Derek leads him in, gestures to the couch. Stiles shakes his head and just presses more firmly against Derek. Derek drops his arm to hold around his waist, shutting the door behind him. “Stiles, what’s going on?”

 “I want to show you something.” Stiles says suddenly, moving back. Derek frowns a little, but he nods. Stiles nods back and then moves past him to the bedroom. Derek uneasily follows. When he enters Stiles gestures to the bed, but even after Derek sits he paces. Derek’s about to ask again about what’s bothering him when Stiles spins away and tugs off his shirt.

 Derek’s a little shell-shocked at first, because Stiles never takes off his shirt. Even when they come here, or are at Stiles’ place, and they’re making out. Sometimes Stiles will pull off Derek’s, but Stiles keeps his on, always. Derek can touch, but he can’t see. So now that he can, he spends a maybe a little too long studying the raven stretched across Stiles’ shoulders, like it laid itself there and just never got up.

 Derek reaches out to grab the band of his sweatpants and tugs back a little, so he can brush his fingers over the lines he can see in the dim light from the street lamp and the moon. “It’s beautiful.” Derek says honestly.

 “My mom loved ravens.” Stiles mumbles. “I knew I wanted one after she died.” Derek lets that sink in for a minute before pressing a kiss to the middle of Stiles’ spine. Stiles’ shudders a little but otherwise doesn’t say anything about it. “I was eight. When I turned seventeen, I started designing it. I had my best friend Scott take a picture of my back and I redrew it so I could put the raven on there, so I could pick the placement of it. When I turned eighteen, he took me to get the outline. I spent the rest of the year working up enough money and time so I could get it colored.”

 Stiles turns and settles himself in Derek’s lap, holding one of his arms between them. He points to the flower, a purple iris wrapped around his elbow. “This was next. It was her favorite flower. And then this one,” he points to two bands wrapped around his bicep. “I got because Scott and I wanted a matching one. The rest of them are Lydia’s doing. She got a hold of my arm and drew on it and I liked it enough I had it photographed and redone in ink.”

 Stiles brings up his other arm. He points to the badge on his shoulder. “My dad’s the sheriff of my home town,” trails his finger down to a line of foreign words wrapped around his arm. “A song my mom used to sing to me when I was little,” stopping at a small band of pink, purple, and blue “Because I’m bisexual.”

 “And what are these?” Derek asks quietly, dragging his thumb over the designs filling the spaces between.

 “Constellations. My favorite ones. Ursa major and minor, Cassiopeia, Aquila, Canis major.” he lists, pointing out each one. “You’ve never really looked at them. Before now, you—you don’t really look, which isn’t a problem. I just…I didn’t want you to think you couldn’t. I know I keep covered, but that’s mostly because I don’t feel…good enough, to not be.”

 “That’s not true.”

 “I’m starting to believe it.” Stiles nods, looking up at him from under his eyelashes.

 Derek reaches up to cup his cheek, dragging his thumb across the bone. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

 “I just kept thinking about how—how much I like you, and like being with you. Kissing you. Having you answer the door for me and letting me in at three in the morning.”

 Derek leans in to kiss him, just lightly. When he pulls back, he whispers “To be fair to myself, I didn’t know it was three a.m. I don’t know if I would’ve answered if I had.”

 Stiles snorts, reaching up to pull at Derek’s hair. “Jerk.”

 Derek kisses him again, slow and sweet but long enough that when Stiles moves away he’s breathless. Derek gives him a soft smile, leans in to press one more soft kiss to his mouth when Stiles interrupts by blurting “I love you.”

 Derek pauses. He doesn’t freeze, but he takes a moment to look Stiles over. To read the tension in his shoulders and the way his fingers are shaking in his hair. The slight quiver in his breath and the flutter in his pulse where Derek can feel it. Then he sits back and brings his other hand to Stiles cheek, smoothing out his thumb to ease the worry out of his eyes. “I love you. I just didn’t want to say it first.”

 Stiles laughs, sharp and loud in the quiet, and turns to bite at Derek’s wrist. Derek lets him, because Stiles does that. Like to nip and press his teeth anywhere he can reach as a sign of affection, almost like a puppy. “God, you’re an asshole. I take it back, I take it all back.” Stiles murmurs into his wrist, turning his bites into lingering kisses.

 “I don’t.” Derek tells him, leaning in to nuzzle into his throat. “I’ve spent precious months falling in love with you, Stiles, I’m not about to take it back now.”

 Stiles sighs into his wrist, hot breath turning cold on the spit-slick skin. “You wrote me love poems, didn’t you?”

 “ _Freckles like stardust,_

_bright and beautiful marks of light,_

_turning your skin into a canvas_

_in which God has laid every galaxy._

_And I, the humble astronomer,_

_gaze upon his masterpiece in awe_

_and see an infinity of futures built_

_for me._ ”

 Stiles drags him up into a powerful kiss the moment he stops speaking, and Derek takes it. Let’s Stiles push himself into Derek’s space, into his mouth and mind and devour him. He grabs at Stiles’ hips, holding tight and trying to bring them closer, to keep himself grounded while Stiles pushes lightning through him. When he moves back, they’re both panting and neither can stop the sloppy half-kisses they give one another even as they repeat _I love you_ over and over and over again.

**Author's Note:**

> A wild [tumblr](http://thepainlessmoustache.tumblr.com/) appears! Come say hi?


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